


Don't Threaten Me With a Good Time

by Oop



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: ABO dynamics, Alpha!Steve, Billy is sexy and wanted by them alpha thots, Billy's POV, Drinking, Harringrove, M/M, Omega!Billy, Smoking, The rating will go up eventually, alpha/beta/omega, mentions of abuse, omegaphobia as a stand-in for homophobia, plays at the edges of noncon for just a second but nothing happens, steve is kind of an asshole but not really on purpose?, there's an oc but he's not long term, this is the closest to slow burn I've ever written
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-04-23 03:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14324022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oop/pseuds/Oop
Summary: Billy doesn't keep it a secret. He doesn’t use suppressants, doesn’t chase other omegas around like he’s lead by the nose, doesn’t do anything too particular that screams alpha, but that’s what people seem to hear anyway."Hey," Steve says, exhaling smoke at the sky. "This is gonna sound weird, but... What cologne are you wearing?"





	1. this night is heating up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every Harringrove fic I've written so far starts with a note that says: "I'm not really into exactly what I've just written, but here it is anyway." And... this is no different. I'm not extremely well-versed in a/b/o dynamics (heads up: I'm figuring this out as I go along) and fully admit that I may have taken on more than I intended. 
> 
> Also, I'm terrible at slow burn, so we'll see. I might hold out until, like, chapter three.
> 
> Titles from Panic at the Disco's "Don't Threaten Me With a Good Time"

Billy’s never hidden the fact that he’s an omega. Sure, he gets that here, in Indiana, it’s something to be demure about at best, ashamed of at worst. But Billy’s mom had told him, over and over again when he was young, that it was the most important role in a pack. She’d pulled his head into her lap to play with his hair and said, "Here’s a secret: omegas are actually the protectors of their packs." He’d still had years before presenting, but he wonders now if his mom hadn’t _known_ somehow. Maybe she’d seen it in the way Billy sometimes tried to get between her and Neil, or the way he’d cried when he couldn’t.

In any case, there are only a few people who know, but not because Billy keeps it a secret. He doesn’t use suppressants, doesn’t chase other omegas around like he’s lead by the nose, doesn’t do anything too particular that screams _alpha_ , but that’s what people seem to hear anyway. Because he plays sports and isn’t afraid to shove or throw an elbow. Because he gets into alphas’ faces, puts betas in their fucking places. Because he beat the shit out of Harrington, the _Alpha_ of Hawkins High. They called him _King_ Steve, but what they actually meant was Alpha. (Some people think that title belongs to Billy now. Billy doesn’t correct them. He’s not ashamed of being an omega, much as Neil tries to beat it into him, but he doesn’t see the advantage in advertising either way.)

Harrington steers clear of him after that, which suits Billy just fine. They play basketball; Billy is still aggressive and Steve still looks miserable. Other than that, the next time they bump into each other outside of school is a party. (Of course. It’s always a party, isn’t it?) It fucking stinks. Literally. Between the alcohol and the weed—the normal smells—it would be bad enough. But layered in with the musk of so many people sweating and making out and mingling? It’s too fucking much. It’d be too much even if people weren’t practically trying to grind on Billy when he just tries to walk past.

He steps outside, wanting some air, and there’s King Steve himself, staring into the woods behind the house and shuddering like it’s not the warmest night they’ve had in months. Billy takes a deep breath. Fuck, he’s barely within ten feet of Steve and he can _taste_ the anxiety, sour and cloying.

"Harrington," Billy greets, walking over to him, cigarette already in his mouth. He thinks the smoke might help clear out his nose, set things back to neutral.

He can see Steve withdraw, watch him go cold and apprehensive. "What d’you want, Hargrove?"

Now that the cig’s lit, Billy takes a pull and then offers Steve the filter end. "Smoke?"

Steve turns his nose up at it, so Billy snorts and puts it to his own lips again. They stand in silence for a minute before Steve eyes him up and down. There was a time, before bloody knuckles and syringes in his neck, that Billy would have preened under Steve’s gaze. Now, he still gets a warm rush, but the chances of anything happening here, after everything, are pretty much nil.

"Come to apologize?" Steve eventually asks, no less jumpy but trying to sound tough. It’s kind of cute. It’s also kind of annoying.

Billy chuckles. "Apologize?"

"You heard me." Crossing his arms, Steve looks laughably stubborn.

"You first, then I’ll think about it," Billy says, wrapping his lips around another pull of smoke.

"I didn’t do—"

"Yeah, sure," Billy says. And this is why he didn’t want to approach Harrington. Guys like Harrington, they never see their own fault, do they? "You didn’t lie to me about my sister. You didn’t throw the first punch. So I’m clearly the only one to blame."

He can see Steve’s jaw working, hears his small sigh. "Fine. I’m sorry. But going after Lucas? That was fucked up."

Lucas. Billy blows out smoke. "That little shit made Max cry."

After a moment, an incredulous laugh splits the night. "He… _That’s_ why you charged him?"

Billy shrugs. "I guess. Plus… My dad is… He wouldn’t approve. Of them." He feels pretty secure in thinking that Neil wouldn’t raise a hand to Max normally, but if he found out about Lucas? Well, Billy wouldn’t bet anything he wasn’t willing to lose. Like _hell_ he’ll tell Harrington that, though.

Like he’s just heard the most unbelievable story, Steve scoffs. "So it was _protectiveness_?" He looks at Billy, eyes wide. "You expect me to believe that?"

"I’m a lot of things, Harrington, but I’m not a liar." That shit’s true, too.

Steve looks him over again, then seems to ease back against the house siding. "Fine. You said you’d apologize if I did. So let’s hear it."

"Said I’d think about it," Billy says. Steve tosses him a disgusted look, stands up straight like he’s thinking about leaving, and Billy has half a mind to let him. Steve doesn’t get it. How could he? Still, what’s a fucking apology at this point? So Billy says, "I’m sorry." It’s not fancy or long or pretty, but it comes out genuine enough, not too flat and not mocking. Maybe he could say that he’s sorry he busted up Steve’s pretty face, or that he was over-aggressive with some little punk not even old enough to have presented yet, but he doesn’t.

Regardless, Steve exhales hard, like he’s suddenly exhausted. "Apology accepted, I guess. But that doesn’t make it okay."

"Same to you, pretty boy." He smiles. "Now the real trick is getting Max to apologize for tranq’ing me." Honestly, whatever had been in the needle made Billy feel sick and off-kilter for _days_ afterward _._ That’s not even to mention them stealing his car, leaving Billy to wake up disoriented and terrified to _walk_ the however-many- _miles_ home. Leaving him to face his dad with no sister, no excuses, and no escape.

Steve smiles, small but real. "Good fucking luck." And, yeah, Billy’s not holding his breath for _that_ particular apology. He’s kind of amazed that he even got one from Steve.

Without responding, Billy offers the cigarette again. This time, Steve takes it, and something— _something_ —zings through Billy’s gut when Steve puts it to his lips. Billy doesn’t dwell on it. Mutual apologies a blossoming friendship does not make. Still, he takes it back when Steve holds it out and places it against his own lips like something to savor.

"Hey," Steve says, exhaling smoke at the sky. "This is gonna sound weird, but... What cologne are you wearing?" He looks at Billy and, with sudden clarity—Billy is such a fucking _idiot_ —Billy knows what’s happening. Why the party stunk so much worse than usual. Why people were all over him (which isn’t really _that_ unusual, honestly). Why Steve Harrington is asking about cologne when Billy _isn’t fucking wearing any_. Or what he was wearing from this morning has long faded, anyway.

"Nothing special," he says, throwing in a nonchalant shrug for good measure. He gives the cigarette back to Steve and wonders if it would be suspicious for him to duck out now. Probably. "Like it?"

Steve blinks like he’d zoned out for a bit, glances at Billy before crushing the cigarette under his sneaker. "Yeah. It’s good. Better than the other stuff you wear."

The other stuff Billy doesn’t love himself, but usually wears to cover his own scent, just a little bit. He can’t cover it completely, doesn’t _want_ to, but enough that it usually doesn’t project "omega." Not like it’s gearing up to do here in the next day or so, cologne be damned. Right now, though, he just shrugs again.

"For what it’s worth," Steve says, "when you’re not being a complete jackass, I think you’re alright."  

"For what it’s worth, nobody asked," Billy says, but with a smile.

Hesitantly, like he almost can’t believe what’s happened, Steve smiles back. "Going back inside?"

Billy wants to, but he thinks about all those smells, all those crushing bodies, and says, "I was just getting ready to head out, actually."

"Oh." Steve pushes from the wall, takes a step toward the door, closer to Billy. "It’s still pretty earl— _oh_ ." Now that he’s caught the full scent, Steve’s body pumps out his own in a sudden wave like Billy’s never experienced before, like Steve’s body wants to flavor all the air in the fucking world like _Steve_.

 _Christ_ , Billy thinks. He should have bolted earlier, suspicious or not. Steve smells so fucking _good_ . _So_ good. Like… like fresh autumn air and cinnamon and— _Stop it,_ Billy tells himself. Not that he really can, but he forces himself to focus through it, to not pick apart Steve’s scent even though it takes every fucking synapse of his concentration. Maybe he can’t control the flare of his nostrils, but he can control _himself_. Probably. Hopefully.

Like everyone else in this fucking hillbilly town, Steve probably expects Billy to be embarrassed, and Billy could be just because it’s _Steve goddamned Harrington_ , but it’s not like people weren’t going to find out sooner or later, right? So Billy doesn’t move, just tilts his head and grins, shows the points of his teeth. "I’ve got… things to do," he says.

Steve looks like he’s going to pass out or something, and it’s the _or something_ that Billy’s worried about. He is not about to have his bones jumped by Steve Harrington at a party because it’s the first time Pretty Boy’s gotten even a whiff of an omega about to go into heat. God, everyone here is so _suppressed_ that Billy’s surprised Steve can even recognize it.

Before Steve can say anything (because Billy doesn’t want to have that conversation tonight), Billy tilts his head toward the door, his arms crossing over his chest as he stands up tall, trying to make his body language say _step away_ and not _bend me over_. "Go inside, Harrington."

"But you—" He breathes in deeply, like he can’t help himself. Billy really doesn’t want to have to beat his face in tonight, but he’s a little worried not only about Steve’s weirdly strong reaction to Billy’s pre-heat scent but also his _own_ reaction. Usually, when he can sense his heat coming on, Billy doesn’t let anyone near him, lashes out with unbridled viciousness. But Steve… God, Billy thinks he’d let Steve close, and that’s fucking _dangerous_ territory. It turns him on a little. Terrifies him a lot. He’s suddenly very aware of the wall at his back, the way he wants to _run_ . The way he wants Harrington to _chase_.

"Steve," Billy says, words sluggish in his mouth, breath heavy in his lungs. "Go inside."

Steve nods. "Yeah," he says, swallows so hard Billy can see his throat work. "Yeah." But he’s not moving, shuffling his feet like he always does and it makes Billy fucking _nuts_.

Billy steps forward, curls his lip up into a snarl. "Go." If he could stand the thought of turning his back, Billy would leave, but he won’t make himself vulnerable like that. Not for Harrington. Not for anyone.

Finally, Steve backs away. One step, then two, until Billy can see the moment he stops smelling only Billy. It’s like watching a rubber band snap, the way Steve relaxes a bit, the way rational thought slowly shrinks his pupils back to a reasonable size. Then he looks at Billy like he’s only just realizing what he wanted to do, what he was about to do. "Shit, Hargrove. I’m sorry. Do you— Do you want me to keep—"

"It’s not a _secret_ ," Billy spits, even as his posture starts easing with the distance. God, this fucking Midwest _bullshit_ . Why does everyone want him to be _ashamed_ of it? It’s not like he got to choose. Even if he did, it’s not like it’s a bad thing. It doesn’t make him weaker. Doesn’t make him softer or smaller. Doesn’t make him incapable or mindless or worthless. Doesn’t make him anything other than what he is. And even if he doesn’t say it to _Neil_ , he’s not afraid to tell it to anyone else.

Holding up his hands, placating, Steve says. "Okay. But… I won’t tell anyone. It’s _your_ thing to share, if you want to. I mean—"

"Whatever," Billy scoffs. He’s not going to say thank you, but he guesses that is… decent. Of Harrington. To not tell. But Billy’s not going to act like it’s a _favor_ or some shit.

"I’m gonna—" Steve gestures toward the house— "now. You… You don’t need anything? You can… get home okay?"

Billy looks at him like he’s grown three heads.

Clearing his throat, Steve nods. "Yeah, that was fucking stupid to ask. I’m going, uh, inside. Now." He goes, _finally_ , only looking back at Billy once he’s at the door, like it’s an effort, suddenly, to leave Billy out there by himself. Once he closes the door behind him, though, Billy sighs, slumps against the side of the house. _Shit_. What the fuck was that? Now that Harrington’s not pinning him with his eyes, Billy feels wrung out, shaky and cold. Christ. After a few deep breaths, Billy peels himself from the house, shudders at the cold tickling his back, and leaves to spend the rest of the weekend, and probably a few days after, in hot, slick misery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on tumblr! Here's my [writing blog](%E2%80%9Cthingsalexwrites.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D) and here's my [fan blog](%E2%80%9Careyouactuallystupid.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D)!


	2. it’s a hell of a feeling though

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s Steve’s nose. Then there’s Steve’s lips, mouthing curiously at Billy’s slick skin, and Billy’s about one second from shaking apart into a million pieces even though he’s still not sure what exactly it is he’s feeling, can’t distinguish between want and fear. All he knows is that, when Steve experimentally places his teeth against Billy’s neck, Billy’s immediate instinct is to tip his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a tiny baby, so I smushed it together with the next to make an average-length post. Normally I'd just do a shorty, but I think combining was the best choice this time.

**ii. it’s a hell of a feeling though**

 

When Billy comes back to school, Steve acts like they have some kind of secret now. In the hallways, instead of a scowl, the slam of a locker, a turned shoulder, now Billy gets a companionable nod, an awkward wave. Billy ignores it. He notices that no one else treats him differently, so he supposes Harrington kept his cakehole shut, like he said he would. Not that Billy cares. 

Tommy sidles up at Billy’s locker a few minutes before the first bell. "Hey, man. Where you been?"

Billy doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. One cool look, and Tommy’s backing off, physically taking a step back, and this is exactly what makes people think Billy’s an alpha. Honestly, Billy is kind of shocked that Tommy hasn’t figured it out yet, the way he follows Billy around. Maybe, like everyone else, he’s just really good at denial. Maybe it’s not that Billy’s not obvious, but that everyone else is so  _ suppressed _ that their senses are dead. Billy shudders at the thought. Sometimes he thinks his instincts are the only  _ okay _ part of him, that everything else is a little broken. Sometimes he leans into those instincts too hard because they’re the one thing he feels like he doesn’t need to  _ fight,  _ the only things that care if he’s safe. 

Tommy says, "Alright. None of my business. I get it." He’s not always as stupid as he looks.

Billy goes back to pulling his books out of his locker. Christ, he’s still wiped. It seems like each heat lasts longer and hits harder than the one before it. He doesn’t know if that’s an actual  _ thing _ or if it just  _ feels _ that way, but it wrings him out like a wet rag every time, and afterward he feels like an empty husk for days. So, whatever bullshit Tommy’s already rambling about, Billy can’t care. But then Tommy says something like, "You hear about that party?"

Billy sighs. "Which party?"

"Bauman’s."

That’s the party Billy was at, but he doesn’t say that. Instead he asks, "What about it?"

"Heard an omega went into heat there. Pretty ballsy, not taking suppressants and going to a party—"

"Tommy?"

"What?"

"Shut the fuck up." Billy slams his locker closed and starts heading to class. He  _ sees _ Tommy’s bewildered expression without even looking and he doesn’t give a shit. God, what kind of hick town is this, that a  _ heat _ is such a big fucking deal? It feels like Billy’s moved into a box, or one of those rooms with spikes on the walls in horror movies, and every day the sides close around him a little more. It’s fucking  _ suffocating _ and he just wants  _ one day _ where he can  _ breathe  _ without fighting for it. He wants for his mom’s voice, the one telling him that to be an omega is to be strong, something to be proud of, to not have to play on a loop in his head every fucking day. Like a tape rewound too many times, he’s afraid he’ll wear it out. Or, worse, stop hearing it as more than just background noise. 

By the time Billy hears about this "mystery omega" again, he’s glad that Tommy told him first. He has more restraint when it comes to hitting Tommy because he may be a dumbass, but he’s the closest thing Billy has to a friend. And he knows that, if Tommy’s telling him, it’s hot news. So the next person to talk about it doesn’t take Billy by surprise. Or the next person. Sometimes, people watch for Billy’s reaction when they mention it, anticipating… He doesn’t know what. Salivating? Questions to put him on the trail? He’s never pretended to be interested in omegas before, so why would he now? These people are so fucking  _ dumb _ . If they paid any attention at all, they’d be able to put the pieces together: Billy was at that party and left early; he missed three days of school this week; he’s not interested in this gossip. Facts lined up like dominoes, just waiting for someone to  _ look _ at them too hard. 

But no one does. Because Billy doesn’t fit the stereotype. And, for once, he might lean toward thankful for it. By the end of the day, he just wants to sleep, but Max has some after-school thing and Billy has plenty of classwork to catch up on, so he goes to the library and settles at a table and takes a second to just… breathe. Head tipped back, eyes closed, he tries to let some of the tension drain out of him. When he feels less fragile, less like any more stimuli will send him spiralling, he pulls out his math book and sets to work. There’s something calming, something simple and rote and soothing, about following formulae. 

And then, of fucking course, Harrington slides into the chair next to him. Billy knows by his smell, cinnamon and dry leaves and whatever the hell that tang is. All, of course, shoved under the antiseptic smell of suppressant, which should be the  _ only _ thing Billy can smell. He’s too tired to think about it right now. "Harrington," Billy says without looking up. "The hell do you want?"

"Billy," Steve says, and then continues when Billy briefly glances at him. "Long day?" he asks,  _ smiling _ like he knows something. 

"Don’t," Billy warns, finishing a problem on his paper, "push it today." 

Steve does that move with his hands that everyone seems to be doing recently, like he doesn’t want Billy to think he’s a threat. "Easy, Hargrove. Just wanted to let you know that it wasn’t me." 

Billy taps the eraser of his pencil on his open book, his leg bouncing under the table. " _ What _ wasn’t you?"

"The— You know. What people are saying. About the party. The rumor." Which is a little funny, considering they’re maybe the only two people in the school who know that it  _ isn’t _ a rumor.

With a snort, Billy rolls his eyes. "I could give a fuck, Harrington." He goes back to his homework. _ If that’s all, then _ , he means for it to say, but Harrington doesn’t leave. Billy finishes another problem before Steve finally says, "You… You really  _ don’t _ care, do you?" He sounds impressed, maybe? 

It pisses Billy off, but he ignores it, sighs through his nose. "Need it in writing, or what?"

"If you don’t care if people know, why do you cover your scent?"

Billy starts working through the next problem. "I  _ don’t _ ."

"Your cologne," Steve insists. 

"No.  _ Your _ suppressants."

Steve won’t let it go. "Then why wear cologne?"

Tossing his pencil onto the table, Billy leans back. " _ Christ _ , Harrington. What’s it  _ matter _ to you, anyway?"

A little sheepishly, Steve shrugs. "I’ve never been off suppressants. I just… I don’t know what it’s like."

"Then quit taking them and find out for yourself." Steve looks like he’s never fucking considered it for one day in his life, like it’s a revelation. Billy wants him to take his enlightenment anywhere else. "Now, if you don’t fucking mind,  _ Princess _ , I’ve got work to do."

Thankfully, Steve leaves.

  
  


Maybe, Billy thinks a week later (a week too late), he should not have given Steve that advice. It was, perhaps, not his greatest idea. Mostly because, now, instead of the school stinking like _meds_ , it stinks like _Steve_. Except, it doesn’t actually _stink_. That’s the problem, mainly. It smells fucking _good_ and it’s driving Billy insane, making him breathe hard in the hallways, making him squirm in classes he shares with Steve, making him want to tip his head to the side and, just, what the _actual_ _fuck_? Billy used to live in California, where hardly anyone used suppressants, and he never reacted like _this_. Maybe it’s just because he’s not used to it now. Or maybe it’s because Steve’s the only alpha Billy can actually smell. But this… this, _whatever it is,_ is too fucking much. 

Still, it’s not a real issue until basketball, and even then it’s  _ bearable _ . At least, until Steve accidentally knocks back into Billy while he’d been mid-step, sending him sprawling. That’s not the issue. The issue is when Steve leans over to offer Billy a hand and Billy… can’t fucking get up. He’s flat on the floor, with  _ Steve goddamned Harrington  _ looming over him, and Billy can’t move. He feels his jaw tick, his neck strain, but all he can manage is to press himself against the floor. It takes everything in him not to turn his head to the side, to offer up his neck, to fucking submit.  _ Like hell _ , he thinks, grinding his teeth.

"Okay, Hargrove?" the coach yells from across the gym, because Billy never stays down this long. He’s gotten up faster when he was actually bleeding. But it draws everyone’s attention, and immediately the entire gym feels like an overfull balloon, all tension and silence and too much air, every molecule of which reeks of  _ Steve _ .

"Move," Billy grits out. 

Like a goddamned moron, Steve says, "What?"

"Fucking…  _ move _ !" he hisses. 

Steve still just stands there, his hand out. Billy decides he’s going to kill him when Steve says, "Just let me help you, dude." He reaches out further, like he’s going to grab Billy’s arm, and Billy flinches, tries to press further back. "Oh, shit," Steve says, the realization clear in his eyes. "Oh,  _ shit _ . Sorry." He moves away, then, and after a few steps Billy’s muscles relax and he can sit up. He rubs a hand over his face before standing, and tries not to show the way he shakes. 

The entire team stares at them, but the coach is the only one who looks like he might  _ know _ something, and at least he doesn’t look mad about it. Everyone else just looks a little confused, tense like they expected a fight. And, yeah, that would be the reasonable thing to expect between two alphas in that situation.

"All good?" Coach yells. 

All eyes on him, Billy forces a grin. "Yeah, Coach."

"Good. Let’s get this game going again, then."

Billy tries to wait out Steve by shooting hoops after everyone else goes to the showers. Swish. Rebound. Dribble. Swish. Rebound. Dribble. It’s a good rhythm, easy and familiar, not unlike math problems. It helps settle something rattling around in Billy ever since earlier. Since Harrington had leaned over him and every cell in Billy’s body had screamed  _ submit _ .

It’s never been like that, for Billy. He doesn’t submit to anyone, ever, and has never been compelled to. It’s fucking  _ terrifying _ . He thinks about Steve leaning over him, about being unable to move, being paralyzed, on his back and vulnerable, and feels like he can’t breathe, like something sticky wants to crawl out of his throat.

He fumbles the ball, bounces it on his own shoe and watches it roll away. He doesn’t go after it, but instead leans his hands on his knees.  _ Fuck _ . It couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds, that whole  _ drama _ , so why is he still so shaken up about it?  _ Pull it together, Billy _ , he tells himself. 

When Tommy comes out the door in a waft of shower steam, smelling acerbic and sterile, he goes up to Billy. "Hey, man. You good?"

Billy pushes hair out of his face. "Yeah. I’m good," he lies.

With that out of the way, Tommy grins. "Thought you and Harrington were gonna duke it out today." He pauses for Billy to say something, but Billy has nothing to add, so he continues. "Guess he stopped taking his suppressants?"

"That would explain it," Billy says, like he hasn’t already fucking  _ known _ that since last week. Like he isn’t tormented by it every time he takes a goddamned breath.

Tommy says, "That would be one hell of a fight. I saw two alphas go at it, once. It’s gnarly." He doesn’t look too traumatized by the memory; more excited for the possibility. "You could take him, though." Knowingly, he nods at Billy. (No one ever bothered confirming that it was Billy who fucked up Harrington’s face all those weeks ago, but then, no one really needed to.)

Yeah, maybe if Billy didn’t  _ freeze  _ again. He just shrugs. "I’m hitting the showers," he says, and walks away without a backward glance. 

During his conversation with Tommy, everyone else must have left. Everyone except Harrington, whose scent is even headier in all the steam from the showers. Billy’s body feels heavy with it, like he wants to lay down and let Harrington lean over him again.  _ Christ _ . He should probably skip the shower, just go home. But that’s gross, so Billy grabs his shower stuff and heads to the spot furthest from Steve. He turns on the cold water because somehow he knows that any kind of heat is going to make this more… whatever this is. Just,  _ more _ .

Steve approaches him a few minutes later, pink from his own shower, towel around his waist. "Billy," he starts. "I… I’m sorry about—"

"Don’t," Billy snaps. At Steve’s confused look, Billy sighs. "Don’t. Talk about it, I mean."

Like he’s hard of hearing, Steve continues: "What  _ was _ that though?"

" _ Nothing _ . It wasn’t anything."

Leaning against the wall, Steve crosses his arms. "It wasn’t  _ nothing _ . I know that much."

"You don’t know a  _ fucking _ thing, Harrington."

"I know that I’m an alpha and you’re an omega," Steve says, stepping forward. For the second time that day, Billy freezes. "And I know that your smell is making me crazy."

"You just went off suppressants. The smell of dog shit would probably make you crazy. Don’t read into it too much."

Steve wrinkles his nose, but he steps forward again. Billy rumbles deep in his throat. " _ Harrington _ ."

"Billy," Steve says, and then he’s  _ right there _ , in Billy’s space, leaning down to put his nose to Billy’s neck. A full-body shudder tears down Billy’s spine, makes his legs so weak that his palms smack against the tiled wall to steady himself. His heart pounds against his sternum like it wants to smash it open. 

There’s Steve’s nose. Then there’s Steve’s lips, mouthing curiously at Billy’s slick skin, and Billy’s about one second from shaking apart into a million pieces even though he’s still not sure what exactly it is he’s feeling, can’t distinguish between  _ want _ and  _ fear _ . All he knows is that, when Steve experimentally places his teeth against Billy’s neck, Billy’s immediate instinct is to tip his head. He doesn’t. Instead, Billy jerks his elbow back and nails Harrington right in the solar plexus so he can slip free. With several feet between them, Billy turns to face him. They’re both gasping for different reasons. 

"What the  _ fuck _ , Harrington?" And yeah, Billy’s yelling, but he thinks it’s justified. He puts a hand protectively over his neck where Steve’s teeth had just skimmed.  _ Shit _ , that was close. Way too fucking close. If Billy went home with a mark on his neck, his dad would fucking  _ murder _ him. Never mind any of the other repercussions.

Steve, practically doubled over with an arm around his stomach, looks up at him, red from his face to below his soaked towel. "Sorry, I—  _ fuck _ . I didn’t mean— It was— I couldn’t—"

Back against the wall, Billy fights not to slide to the floor, adrenaline the only thing holding him upright. "You stay  _ the fuck _ away from me," he says, jaw clenched, hand still hiding his neck. He can feel his own pulse there, but that could be because he’s pressing so hard. Jesus  _ fucking _ Christ. 

Still wide-eyed, like he doesn’t even know what he just did, Steve says, "Billy, please—"

"No," Billy says. "No, you stay the fuck away from me, Harrington." Something like pain flashes in Steve’s eyes, and Billy honestly doesn’t give a shit. "Get out," he says, low and dangerous even through the panic. And, slowly, Steve straightens. Billy watches him pull on his clothes and walk to the door with one last regretful look over his shoulder. 

Billy starts his shower routine over so that not one hair on his body, not one square inch of his skin, holds a single trace of Steve Harrington.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to follow me on my [writing blog](%E2%80%9Cthingsalexwrites.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D) or my [fan blog](%E2%80%9Careyouactuallystupid.tumblr.com%E2%80%9D)!


	3. i wanna wake up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve starts leaning in and Billy feels his lip curling into a snarl, right hand preemptively curling into a matching fist. Steve pauses, absorbing those details, and then leans in further. He’s a moron. He’s a fucking idiot and he deserves to be punched and Billy’s going to… going to…
> 
> Billy’s going to let Steve kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, let's talk about how it's approaching the end of the school year and I'm moving back across the country and I am not at all prepared and have zero free time and am upset about it.
> 
> What I'm trying to say is, don't expect chapters much longer than this for, like, a while. Ever, maybe.
> 
> Also, the number of people who commented, "I usually don't like a/b/o, but..." on the last chapter killed me. I hear you, I feel you, you give me life.

Steve keeps away from Billy, but he makes it really damn obvious that he doesn’t _want_ to. Billy can feel his eyes tracking him down the hallway. If he keeps staring at Billy through their classes, his grades are going to get even _worse_ and he’s not going to fucking graduate and then Billy with have to put up with another year of this shit. In basketball, Steve can’t really _help_ getting close to Billy because that’s just how the game goes, but Billy’s not sure whether Steve’s actually touching him more often or if Billy’s just hyper aware of it. After practices, Steve takes the farthest shower he can but always glances at Billy.

"What’s up with Harrington?" Tommy asks, because it’s so _obvious_ that even Tommy has noticed, even if he hasn’t put it all together. With any luck, he never will, but Billy gets the feeling that, one of these days, this thing is going to bust open, this _not-secret_ . He just wishes that, if it’s going to happen, it would just fucking _happen_ already. He’d thought that someone would solve the riddle after the party rumor, but no. The only person who knows is still goddamned _Harrington_.

Billy slaps off his shower. "Who fucking cares?"

He takes his time getting dressed and Tommy doesn’t wait up because Carol’s waiting, like usual. Billy doesn’t realize this leaves him alone with Steve until Steve, quiet, says, "Billy."

While Billy doesn’t _jump_ , exactly, his shoulders lurch up, goosebumps washing along his spine. "I thought I said—"

"I know. Can I talk to you?" He sounds fucking _sad_. He’s always looked a little miserable, but this tone isn’t anything like Billy’s heard before.

Taking a deep breath, letting it out slow (fuck, Harrington still _reeks_ ) Billy turns around. "I’m listening."

Steve still hasn’t put his clothes on, only his towel around his waist. He radiates nervousness and regret so hard that Billy’s nose scrunches a bit. "I’m sorry," Steve eventually starts, meeting Billy dead in the eye. "I fucked up. What I did— That wasn’t okay. I know it’s not an excuse, but I… this is my first time off suppressants and I… didn’t know what I was doing." He pauses, as if expecting Billy to say something. He doesn’t, and he makes damn sure his face doesn’t give anything away. Steve looks down now, and it’s strange, seeing an alpha reluctant to look at him. "So, I’m sorry."

Billy stays quiet for a while after that, arms crossed. Then, with a creeping smile, he says, "Flunked health freshman year, or what, Harrington?"

"What?"

"They teach you all that shit in health. What it’s like being off suppressants. What it means to… bite someone."

Steve shrugs. "Indiana’s abstinence-only. And it’s a little different having your fifty-year-old health teacher explain it and, like, _living_ it."

For a while, neither of them say anything. So, steeling himself, Billy steps forward, presses Steve back with a palm against his chest. "Word of advice, Princess?"

Steve looks at him eagerly, like he wants all the fucking advice he can get. And, yeah, he probably _does_ . He definitely fucking _needs_ it, that’s for sure.

Hand still on Steve’s chest, ready to push him back, Billy leans forward. He feels the surge under his palm, smells Steve thick like smoke this close. "Fucking _ask_ first." And maybe a note of anger slips into the words, but Billy doesn’t care. He pushes Steve back, hard enough to make him stumble, and then grabs his bag from the bench. Before he can take a step, though, Steve catches him by the wrist. Eyes bright and lips hinting at a smile, he meets Billy’s gaze head on.

"Will you come over? Tonight?"

Billy works his jaw for a second, that familiar spike of _want-fear_ arcing from his gut. He wants to rip free of Steve’s hand. He also wants to use the grip to pull Steve closer. He wants to drain himself of all hormones and just start over from scratch. "What is it you _want_ , exactly?"

"You," Steve says like a fucking soap opera star, the kind of cheesy shit that probably sends girls toppling over. He steps forward, pushing the backs of Billy’s knees against the bench and putting the few inches he has on Billy to good use. "I want to fuck you," he says, starting to sound less sad and more like this Alpha of Hawkins Billy’s heard so much about. "And… maybe, if you’ll let me, I’d like to bite you." The more he talks, the more confident he gets, standing taller and simultaneously leaning in closer until Billy’s thighs ache keeping him from falling back.

Billy licks his lips, swallows, throat suddenly too dry and mouth too wet. He remembers the scrape of Steve’s teeth over his neck and shudders, his stomach screwing up. "No," he says, shoving Steve back again. This time, a growl rumbles low in Steve’s throat. Billy doesn’t like that at all, so he gives an answering one, not caring if his back is to the wall, not caring if Steve looms a few inches over him. “I’ve beaten the shit out of you once already, and I can do it again, Harrington.”

“Unless you’re on your back on the floor,” Steve says, eyebrow quirked with challenge.

That, Billy thinks, is hardly fair. Eyes narrowed, he shoves Steve back with more intention. “Back off,” Billy says.

Steve puts his hands up in that stupid gesture but doesn’t move away, and Billy wants to break all of his fingers. With his teeth. Which is a little confusing, but still violent enough that Billy doesn’t consider it too closely. “Okay. But did you mean no to the sex or to the biting?”

“Both!” Billy snaps, immediate, more because he doesn’t want to think about it intently enough to parse it out than because it’s particularly true. “I’m not gonna roll over for you just because you fucking _reek_ now, Harrington.”

For a ridiculous moment, Steve looks legitimately hurt, a little put out or confused or both. It looks like he wants to say, _you’re not acting like an omega should_ , and Billy swears that he’ll tear out Steve’s tongue if he says it. Thankfully, he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Fine. Can I kiss you?”

Billy blinks. “ _What_? What about this conversation makes you think I’d let you-”

Without waiting for him to finish, Steve starts leaning in and Billy feels his lip curling into a snarl, right hand preemptively curling into a matching fist. Steve pauses, absorbing those details, and then leans in further. He’s a moron. He’s a fucking idiot and he _deserves_ to be punched and Billy’s going to… going to…

Billy’s going to let Steve kiss him. He realizes it a second before it happens, then Steve’s lips are a gentle pressure against his own. A slight wind would touch Billy with more force, but never make him so warm, never overwhelm him to the point where he can’t think, can’t move. A tiny sound ekes from the back of his throat, but otherwise, he goes still. In a way, it’s similar to passing out, he thinks, the way nothing goes unnoticed: his breath going shallow; his skin tightening over his bones; his muscles shaking but calm; his thought process shutting down neat and tidy, one thought at a time blinking out. But he doesn’t know when he closed his eyes, doesn’t remember the fist of his hand loosening again.

A palm slips around to the small of his back. Billy inhales sharply through his nose, groans a little. Encouraged, the hand moves up, up between his shoulder blades, and then down, down, _down_.

Billy shoves Steve away, panic a sudden beat in his throat. “ _Fuck_ you, Steve,” he spits. In another moment, his legs are going to slide out from under him, but the surge of anger at the memory of Steve’s _smug_ fucking face keeps him upright. Billy opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn’t know what. He feels sapped and hungry and nauseous. So, without another word, he turns, grabs his bag, and leaves. Steve, still in his towel, doesn’t follow. Not knowing what to do with the sputter of disappointment in his gut, Billy ignores it and slams his way out of the school.

One of these days, he really is going to beat the shit out of Steve Harrington again, and when it happens, Steve is going to deserve it and Billy _won’t_ fucking apologize.

 

Because the locker room seems to be the place Steve _ambushes_ him the most, Billy skips basketball for a few days. He fucks off to the track that circles the football field, and it’s probably a little too chilly yet to run in his gym shorts and a tee shirt, but it feels good, that cold bite. Billy has always liked running. It was what hooked him on basketball in the first place: the constant movement, the back and forth, the way your body has to know how to move three different ways all at once, the challenge of doing it all _faster_ and _better_ than everyone else. In basketball, if you’re good enough to stand on the court, there’s almost no sitting and waiting. Billy isn’t especially good at sitting and waiting.

Skipping feels a little bit like that, except more like actively running away, and that doesn’t sit easy with Billy. He prefers a direct approach when it comes to most things, but Harrington is a maze and Billy doesn’t know how to navigate him yet. Which makes no fucking sense, because Steve is about the most _stereotypical_ alpha Billy’s ever met, so blindly lead by his instincts and _proud_ of it that he’s basically a neon billboard of intention. Billy _laughs_ _at_ boys like Harrington--dumb, alpha boys who think they deserve Billy’s attention just for existing--, makes them run circles around themselves until they become the butts of their own jokes. He could do the same to Harrington. It would probably be so _easy_ it wouldn’t even be gratifying.

The part that twists up Billy’s stomach is that he doesn’t _want_ to do that.

He kind of wants to do the _opposite_ of that, and he kind of hates himself for it.

Like a bad dream he can’t shake, he hears Steve call, “Hey, Hargrove!” from the entrance of the track. He’s standing there, one hand on his hip and the other waving, and Billy slows to a stop. There’s half a field’s distance between them, and it doesn’t feel like enough. Billy thinks he could run away from Harrington for _days_ without stopping and it still wouldn’t be enough.

Pausing for a beat, two, Billy lets his pulse rush. It’s not surprising how much he _doesn’t_ want to talk to Steve. It’s more annoying how much energy it takes _not_ to run toward him.

Billy glances at Steve, gives no indication that he’s noticed him other than having stopped, and then looks the opposite direction. There’s a fence--reasonably tall for keeping out troublemakers--enveloping the track, but Billy’s pretty confident that he could climb it before Steve could cross the field. _Don’t do it,_ he hears in the back of his head, his own rational voice. But there is a part of him, a fucking _dumb_ and _loud_ part, that wants to push, to test, just for the thrill of it. It’s the same part that he sometimes lets press the gas pedal of the camaro too hard. The same dumb part that sometimes tries to talk back to his dad.

 _Fuck you,_ Billy thinks in Steve’s direction, flipping him the bird high and shameless. Then he bolts toward the fence.

The sense of _chase_ is immediate, the same sensation that prickles up his spine when someone follows him too closely up a flight of stairs, but _more:_ more urgency, more deafening heartbeat, more heavy breathing, more frantic pounding of feet. If he hadn’t already been sweating, he sure as hell is now, and it’s _instant_ , that everywhere itch, that heat. _Christ_ , what has he done? He’s a goddamned idiot.

But,  _shit_ , it feels _good_. It feels better than anything has in a long time, possibly since he moved to this pile-of-shit-and-bricks town. It’s the wind whipping between his legs and against his face, it’s the lightning zip of adrenaline searing his veins, the cold suck of air inflating his chest and burning on the exhale. Billy knows, he _knows_ it in every flaring cell of his body, that he has never run like this before, never so fast or so free, and he doesn’t even care if Harrington is behind him, doesn’t care if he gets caught or not.

Billy barely slows as he reaches the fence, but uses his momentum to scramble up and over, dropping the last few feet on the other side, stumbling, falling on his ass. But he lays back in the grass, chest heaving, and laughs at the sky for the sheer _joy_ of it, of thinking he could do something and then _doing_ it. Fuck, it feels good. He hasn’t laughed like this in… he doesn’t even remember how long.

The laughter dies off pretty quickly, but the grin sticks. When he sits up, he watches Harrington skid to halt at the fence, staring at him from the other side. His fingers latch through the metal and his face reads like anger: eyes tracing Billy’s skin with _scalding_ intensity, lips set in a serious line, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. Another laugh burbles up and out of Billy’s chest, a short bark at Steve’s expense, because Steve had been chasing to _catch--_ to catch _Billy_ \--and he _hadn’t_. Now they stare at each other from opposite sides of chain link, Billy elated and Steve furious. Or whatever Steve is, but Billy’s only seen that kind of intensity associated with anger, so that’s his best guess.

Before Steve can catch his breath and say something to undoubtedly _ruin_ whatever this mood Billy’s having is, Billy pushes to his feet. Steve watches like he’s about to try to Hulk through the fencing, nose flaring. Honestly, all serious like that, if there weren’t something blocking him, Harrington _would_ be intimidating. It occurs to Billy suddenly, again, how fucking _stupid_ that was. Steve is leaner than him, taller than him; without the fence, Steve probably would have caught him, eventually. Now, most people only remember the bruises Billy gave Steve, back when they fought, and forget about the ones _he_ gave Billy (because Billy is always bruised anyway, what else is new?), but _Billy_ remembers. Truth be told, Harrington isn’t half bad at throwing hands. If Steve had gotten ahold of him, if that fence weren’t there, if Billy had been a little slower...

But he wasn’t. He ran and Harrington chased and nothing happened. It’s fucking _lucky_ , too, even if luck isn’t something Billy associates with himself. But, just this once, he’ll take it.

Billy brushes the grass from his shorts, then looks Harrington dead in the eye and winks. He _hears_ Steve’s fingers tightening on the metal as he turns, unafraid to show his back and walk away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to take a second to just... say how much fun I had writing this chapter. This is the shit I love, honestly, and while I have, like, no free time at all, if you have requests along these lines, you're welcome to send them to my writing blog and I'll hoard them safely away until I *do* have time and then do my best to fill them. (But, like, disclaimer: if you hold your breath too long you'll probably die or something.)
> 
> Also, hot news just in: I'm a technological moron, so I can't make links work or smth, idk. So my tumblr urls are  
> writing blog: thingsalexwrites  
> fan blog: areyouactuallystupid  
> personal blog: classic-al
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


	4. can’t even tell if this is a dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I could taste you tonight,” Steve says. His eyes smolder fever-bright, mindless under the instinct, and Billy is shaken. Even as heat blooms in his chest, creeps up his throat, he feels like some poor fuck in a zombie movie just before they realize they’re going to be eaten alive. 
> 
> “Steve. You have to go. Go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE
> 
> also, please take note of the updated tags!

Harrington bowls into him for the third time that night and so Billy, teeth gritted, shoves him back. “We’re on the _same fucking team_ , dumbass. Pull it together!” Around them, players rush into position, high tops squeaking on the unfamiliar court, crossing back and forth over a giant train logo bursting through the center. _Home of the Railroaders,_ the painted wall informs. Billy doesn’t wait for Steve’s response because he has a goddamned game to _save_ here. While Steve sometimes drifts at practice, losing focus and wandering around the court like a mindless tumbleweed, tonight he crackles with some kind of energy that makes him too aggressive, wild and manic. Still brainless, apparently, because Steve keeps trying his damnedest to take Billy down like they’re playing football or something. It doesn’t make any sense that Billy can figure except Steve knows Billy _hates_ losing and what better way to get back at him for that stupid chase than to sabotage the game?

On top of that, Billy’s guarding the fastest Railroader on the court and the guy tries to play him at every opportunity. Usually, Billy would savor the challenge, the _rush_ , but tonight, with Harrington apparently becoming a sentient but fucking _moronic_ bulldozer on the court, he winds up a step behind every play. It pisses him off.

Billy side-steps Harrington, shoulder checks him in his rush to get by, and nearly whips back around at the _growl_ low in Steve’s throat. _What the fuck?_ But he runs past, sees his guard squaring up for a clean shot, and makes a desperate leap to block. Too late. The ball carves an ideal arc through the air, completely unhindered, and swoops into the net like it was nothing. It probably was. Billy lands with too much momentum, but the Railroader catches his arm to steady him. When Billy looks up past the “Banzett 23” of his jersey, the guy’s gray eyes light up, excited and pleased. The breath in Billy’s lungs thins suddenly, and he exhales hard. “Nice shot,” he admits, because clear or not, it was _pretty_.

“Thanks,” Banzett says, then tilts his head in Harrington’s direction. “Your guy made it easy.”

The side of Billy’s mouth twists, just short of a scowl. He opens his mouth, but the _bamada_ of the ball on the court draws his attention back to the game. While he hadn’t noticed they’d been clasping each other’s arms, Billy notices when they let go; his entire arm tingles with heat from the sustained contact. He shakes it out, pretends it doesn’t just spread creeping into his chest, his neck, his face.

_Fucking alphas_ , he spares a moment to think, taking off down the court.

Tommy has the ball so Billy sets a quick pick for him, stopping in the path of his guard. It’s probably the most basic play of basketball and therefore there’s no reason that Harrington should bump into him, no reason Harrington should be so close to him in the first place. But he is and he pushes Billy out of the way so Tommy’s guard can slip between them and slam the ball out of the air when Tommy shoots.

While Billy would like nothing more than to bash Harrington’s head into the floor, there’s no time for anything besides scrambling for the ball, grabbing it at the same time Banzett does. They struggle for possession, pulling and pivoting until they’re both on the floor. It feels like wrestling with a blowtorch, every point of contact _searing_ as their legs slide together across the polished wood and their arms rub, tug-of-warring the ball between them. Then, suddenly, the resistance disappears and Billy wastes no time passing the ball off and rolling back to his feet, ready to rebound, but Tommy makes the shot this time.

Thankfully, someone calls a timeout. Billy doesn’t know how he can be so out of breath already, but he leans on his knees in the huddle, breathing hard.

“Alright, Hargrove?” someone asks, patting his back.

“I’d be _better_ if Harrington stopped trying to _plow_ _me_ on the court.”

Tommy titters at the phrasing, but Billy doesn’t even care, isn’t even thinking about it. Drawing a deep breath, he steps forward and shoves Steve back a step. “What the fuck is _wrong_ with you today?”

Like a wild animal, Steve _snarls_ at him, and all of Billy’s fine hairs stand on end, the cold drip of _danger_ oozing down his nape. Instead of backing down, Billy shoves him again because like _hell_ Harrington is gonna stand there and growl at _him_ when it’s Billy who has every right to be pissed.

Coach pushes them apart as he joins the huddle, face stern but softened with concern when he looks at Billy. Not the same kind of concern that Neil has when he talks about respect and responsibility and not the same kind of concern as Harrington when Billy’s avoided him for a few days. It’s something else, but Billy doesn’t know what, so he ignores it. What he can’t ignore is the way everyone else took a half-step back, like they subconsciously recognize that the air between Billy and Steve holds something volatile and ready to go up in flames at the slightest spark.

“Harrington, sub out.” The entire team seems to exhale in relief. “Hargrove…” For an incredulous moment, it looks like coach might say, “Be careful out there,” or something, like _Billy’s_ been the one provoking and pummeling his teammates. Instead, he says, “Good job out there. Keep it up. Don’t let Banzett take anymore free shots.” Billy shoots an accusing glare at Steve but nods, pushing his hair out of his face and securing it back with an elastic from his wrist.

“Alright,” coach says. “We still have a chance to bring this back. Here’s the plan…”

Just as the buzzer sounds and Billy turns back toward the court, he sees Coach put a hand on Steve’s shoulder, lean in close to talk to him, and Billy can’t see their faces, but the tense shoulders, the hesitating touch, don’t escape his notice. A second later, Steve nods, the back of his neck going red, and jogs toward the locker room. Good. Maybe he’ll sort his shit out and come back ready to play, because the truth is, Steve is a good player - when he’s not going apeshit - and they could really use him right now.

But as the game paces on, Steve doesn’t even come back out of the locker room, let alone take his place on the court. There’s no time to speculate. Now that it’s a more even fight, Billy and Banzett go toe-to-toe, and honestly? It’s the most exhilarating thing Billy’s felt since the chase. (He doubts anything will ever come close to that, unfortunately.) His skin tingles with it, muscles sliding taut and smooth, lips split on a grin. His jersey, the green of Hawkins High, the gray tiger peering impassively from his chest, clings to him with sweat, drenched with his scent, but his arms, where they keep rubbing against the home white of Banzett’s jersey, have started picking up his smell. Billy doesn’t let it distract him, although he could. _God_ , he could. It smells so _good_ (midnight storms over the ocean, lightning, dewed grass) and he’s not really sure if it’s actually Banzett or the perfume of challenge, of adrenaline, of salt and fire on the court. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe they’re the same thing.

The game passes in sound, the _bamada_ of the ball like a bass drum, the shriek of shoes gripping hardwood, the tapping of footwork like a well-worn dance, the swell of the crowd rising and crashing with the tension. Billy lives for this shit, for the desperation of each play, the knowledge that every decision he makes _counts_. Almost nowhere else can he feel this level of focus, pulling tight in his spine, flexing out in his fingers. It’s all unthinking reflex and deliberate motion. Billy rides that razor’s edge of perfect clarity and tunnel vision right up to the last seconds of the game. Tommy passes him the ball, Billy pushes Banzett, back-to-chest, then pivots around him to drive in for a layup. So focused on the shot, on watching it fall neat and clean through the hoop, Billy fumbles the landing. He and Banzett go down, and the landfall knocks the breath out of his lungs. Distantly, he hears the buzzer sound, sees the swell of green in his peripherals as the Hawkins crowd cheers.

He can’t take his attention from the weight of Banzett on top of him, the press of his back against the locomotive logo beneath him. He _feels_ like he’s been hit by a train. On top of him, Banzett stares down at Billy like he’s a puzzle, until, suddenly, he _doesn’t_. Gray eyes widening, he says, “You’re an _omega_?”

The way he says omega, the shock, the _disbelief_ , breaks the spell. Billy shoves Banzett off and sits up, wipes his face with his sweaty jersey. The team doesn’t give him a chance to do much else before they swoop in, hollering, jumping, pulling Billy to his feet. He shakes the heaviness trying to settle in his shoulders, laughs and lets out a wild _woop_ , which would be some _dumb shit_ if anyone but Billy did it. But because Billy does it, it’s _cool_ , and the rest of the team picks it up, and then the Hawkins crowd until the gym is echoing with it and Billy feels high. He forgets about Harrington and his weird aggressiveness. He forgets about Benzitt and the way he’d said _omega_. He forgets about the way Neil’s going to say it when Billy gets home. Right now, he just lets everything feel good. Sure, he’s an omega, but he’s an omega who just won them a game despite being on a court full of alphas. Right here, right now, he’s just a good basketball player, and that’s all Billy wants.

Eventually, an announcement comes on over the speakers and the hype fades as the crowd trickles through double doors thrown open to the cool of the evening. Billy grins as the rest of the Hawkins team slaps him on the back before filing into the locker room. He’s just about to follow when someone catches his arm, and Billy turns, expecting, for whatever dumbass reason, to find Harrington. (Probably because Steve is one of the few people who would risk _grabbing_ Billy.) But it’s not Harrington, it’s Banzett.

Billy’s initial reaction is to glare, to look at Banzett’s fingers on him with the intent of breaking every single one, but Banzett doesn’t seem phased. “Hi. Uh, it’s William, right?” He has a crumpled paper in his other hand, a list of the players and their names and jersey numbers.

“Billy.”

Banzett nods. “Billy, then. I, uh, just wanted to say I was sorry. For my reaction earlier.” His thumb glides over Billy’s inner wrist, brushes over his pulse.

“Okay,” Billy acknowledges, even though it _wasn’t_ and it’s _not_. He’s just in a good fucking mood, which is _rare_ , so he doesn’t want to be reminded that every goddamned person east of the Mississippi River wants him to be _miserable_.

Banzett repeats, “Okay.” His thumb still rubs and rubs and Billy’s stomach fills with warmth and it could have something to do with the way Banzett smells - the way his scent is still all over Billy - or it could be vomit. Billy can’t really tell.

Then Banzett lets go and Billy’s arm feels like it’s going to melt off and Billy thinks, _Oh_.

“Come have a cigarette with me?”

Billy opens his mouth, hesitates to say yes. Hesitates to say no. Banzett smiles, sharp, like he can cut his way into Billy’s thoughts, sharp like a knife in Billy’s gut. _Predator,_ Billy’s instincts tell him. _Alpha._

But that _stupid_ part of him, the part that still gets tingly thinking about Harrington chasing him, says, _It could be fun._ It’s just a cigarette, they’re not in Hawkins, Neil isn’t here, Neil won’t ever know, there won’t be anything _to_ know because _nothing_ will happen. So Billy grins back, bites his tongue between his teeth before he says, “Yeah, let’s go.”

The temperature difference between the gym and outside crackles electric over Billy’s skin. He sucks in a deep breath and the smell of Banzett washes into him, unmuffled by a crowd, as he steps too close and takes too long lighting Billy’s cigarette for him, like he thinks they’re in a film noir and the little flame is the sole source of light for the entire scene. Regardless, Billy sucks in smoke, hoping to steady himself, but it barely helps. His stomach roils.

“You play hard,” Banzett says, leaning back against the metal railing, caging Billy between him and the brick of the building. Billy doesn’t like that at all, but he just leans back, shrugs, says, “That’s the game.” He’s still sweating. He wants to take his jersey off, wouldn’t hesitate any other time, but he’s not _trying_ to be fucking _stupid_ right now, so he keeps it on even though it clings to him like seaweed, holds him down, tries to drown him.

Banzett slides his leg over until his knee barely brushes Billy’s thigh. “Most omegas don’t play like that.”

Billy grinds smoke between his teeth, then smiles his meanest smile. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Because it doesn’t sound like Banzett is just talking about basketball.

“Easy,” Banzett says, like Billy’s a wild animal. His gray eyes keep flashing to where they’re touching. After a few seconds, he moves closer, his knee sliding up, up, up Billy’s inner thigh. “I just think you’ve got a lot of fire.” He’s so close, taller than Billy, looking down at him like he’s _hungry_. “I wanna see what that looks like.”

Despite Billy’s heart pounding away in his throat, despite the searing heat where they touch, he blows smoke in Banzett’s face. “What makes you think you won’t get burned?” This game, this script, is so familiar to Billy that it _aches_. He thinks the nostalgia, the hint of California in their conversation, could lower his guard, could make him just _dumb_ enough...

Banzett, teeth sharp in his smile, reaches for Billy’s wrist again, takes it. “Let me show you.” He squeezes until Billy’s cigarette falls to the concrete, leans in, breathes in Billy’s space, scents the air like Billy’s a meal and he’s starving. Billy feels like he’s watching someone else in his body, internally screaming at a character in a horror movie for making bad choices: c’mon, scoff already! Shove this alpha bastard, this “you’re different from other omegas” idiot, out of your space! Why are you _letting_ this happen? (Because he sees exactly where this is going, and sees how every reaction, later, will tell him that it’s _his_ _fault_.)

“Hargrove!” someone says, and the door to the gym flies open.

It takes a second for Billy to snap back into himself. When he does, he shoves Banzett back like they’re in Neil’s kitchen and it’s five o’clock, the front door swinging open. He also knows that it happened too slow. When Tommy looks over at him, looks between him and Banzett, and blinks like his eyes are covered in syrup, Billy doesn’t give him a chance to ask any questions. Without thinking, he growls, a simmering “don’t touch me” low in his throat.

For a second, Banzett blinks, confused, but then his hand on Billy’s wrist tightens. “We’re busy, Freckles,” Banzett says to Tommy.

Tommy blinks between them again, but lingers on Billy, his entire face an open, unspoken question. Honestly, he looks lost, but tense, poised like he’s going to launch himself at Banzett and get his beta ass kicked. Billy knows that Tommy will, too, if something doesn’t change, and a spark lights up Billy’s spine. Maybe Tommy’s a dumbass, but he’s loyal enough to puff up to an alpha, he’s Billy’s friend, and that means only Billy gets to kick the shit out of him.

“Back off.” The iron in his voice makes both Tommy and Banzett take pause. But then Banzett smiles, steps forward.

“You’re going to fight me?” Like it’s a joke.

Billy smiles back, knowing that the points of his teeth whisper _murder_. “I’ll fucking kill you.”

For the span of one breath, two, Banzett _seethes_. The rage rises off of him like a fog, clogs Billy’s nose with that stormy scent from the court, but _more_. Billy doesn’t flinch. No part of him wants to back down, let alone submit, and he knows that, in a fight, he would win. He’s not sure how he knows that, but he does. So does Banzett, watching him, leaning in like he could make Billy bare his neck if he just postures enough. A laugh burbles from Billy’s throat, because Banzett really thought, from the moment _omega_ went through his mind, that he was going to get his way. After seeing Billy on the court, after thinking Billy was an alpha for most of the game, as soon as he realized he wasn’t, he thought he knew exactly how this would happen. It’s pathetic. It makes Billy smile wider, meaner. Finally, Banzett gets it. He lets go of Billy’s wrist, takes a step back, holds his hands up in that dumb fucking gesture.

“See you around, then… Hargrove, was it?”

Billy inclines his head. “Better not.”

The door closes behind Banzett before Tommy finally looks over at him, shoulders drifting back to their normal slope. “Billy?”

Billy bends down to pick up the cigarette he’d dropped earlier, takes a long drag. “What?”

“Man, I thought- Are you… Are you _okay_?”

The truth is, Billy’s sweating, shaking, but not the same as when Harrington had loomed over him or touched teeth to his neck. No, this is more familiar, more physical, every cell attuned for a fight that never came, every synapse screaming at him to protect what’s his. But he doesn’t know how to tell his instincts that it’s okay, that nothing’s going to happen. He doesn’t know how to _not_ lash out with all the energy sizzling just under his skin, unspent and unneeded. “I’m just fucking fine,” he says.

Tommy straightens the rest of way, then glares over at the door. “What an asshole. He was treating you like… like…”

When Billy looks over, finally, and meets Tommy’s eyes, he blows out smoke. “Like _what_ , Tommy?” He shouldn’t goad. Tommy has to have figured it out by now, has more than enough information to put it together. Billy should let it die, but he’s had enough.

The regret covers Tommy’s face instantly. He has to say it, now, and he knows that Billy is pissed, is ready to fight. He swallows once, loudly, and then says, quiet, “You _know_ like what.”

“Is it a dirty word now?” Billy leans forward, into Tommy’s space. “Say it.”

Tommy leans away. “Just forget it, man.”

  
“No, I don’t think I will,” Billy says. “How was he treating me, Tommy? Hmm?”

  
“Like an _omega_ , okay? He was treating you like an omega.”

  
Tommy braces for a swing, and Billy has half a thought to let him have it. He _should_. But he doesn’t. Instead, he laughs, sucks on his cigarette again rather than say anything. Some of his violence fizzles out unexpectedly, leaving him empty, leaving plenty of space for exhaustion and cold to start creeping in. Fuck, he’s tired. He steps back from Tommy, turns away to lean against the railing where he was before. He’s giving himself away by not staying angry, by not lashing out. He knows he is, but it also feels inevitable; after all that, Tommy already knows. He _has_ to because nobody is that fucking dumb. The only thing left is to admit it.

  
Billy doesn’t realize how long it’s been until suddenly he’s flicking the butt of the cig toward a puddle and Tommy blurts, “Are you?” Quiet, tentative, unsure.

  
“Am I what?” Billy knows what he’s asking, but if Tommy is going to have the balls to put the question to Billy’s face, he’s going to have to at least say the goddamned word.

“An omega.”  
  
Billy draws a deep breath, lets it out slow, watching it billow. Over his shoulder, he meets Tommy’s eyes, notices how he doesn’t flinch away from the gaze. Although Tommy’s voice says _careful_ , his posture says _determined_ , and Billy can admire that. He looks into Tommy’s eyes, brown and guileless, thinks about how Tommy was ready to jump on Banzett. Some part of Billy freezes internally, the way he does when Neil has a hand on his collar and suddenly he can’t _think_ , but some part, the part at the wheel right now, stays steady, calm, cool like relief, uncaring. So he wraps his fingers around the biting chill of the railing and says, “What if I am?” like a challenge. It doesn’t matter what Tommy thinks, anyway. Tommy doesn’t matter. Billy can and will beat his ass later if he has to, and he’d probably deserve it. Even if the thought is _draining_.

Chewing on his cheek, Tommy nods and finally looks away, clearly processing. After a few long moments, too long, so long that Billy starts gnawing an already too-short nail that tastes like synthetic basketball skin, hoping it comes off as nonchalant and not nervous, _finally_ Tommy leans beside him on the railing, facing the other way. “Okay,” he says.

Billy huffs. “Okay?”

“You asked what if you are. So, _if_ you are-” he pauses, letting the emphasis sink in, letting Billy know that he knows but giving him an out anyway- “then... Okay.”

Silently, Billy releases the breath burning in his lungs.

“I mean,” Tommy continues, “it would be weird as hell because you’re _you_ , but it would be okay.”

Billy can’t help his amused snort. “Fair enough.”

The hand clapped on his shoulder startles him. “Great. Good talk, buddy. Now we gotta get our asses moving or the bus is gonna leave us here. And you’re shivering.”

Billy is, he realizes. His grip on the railing squeezes white and the rest of him shakes. So he pushes away, back toward the door, and that’s that. Tommy follows him, just like normal, and maybe he was right. It’s okay.

 

Between high-fives and companionable smacks from his teammates, Billy notices that Harrington isn’t on the bus. He knows because he isn’t bulldozed by the moron in question, but also because the bus doesn’t fucking _reek_. (Well, yeah, it does, but it reeks like sweaty boys, the cling of cigarette smoke, and the sting of suppressant.) Honestly, it’s so much of a relief that Billy doesn’t even question it as he slides into a window seat. Tommy doesn’t hesitate to drop down beside him, and it’s fucking stupid that Billy had wondered, for some reason, if he would; the guy who was gonna jump on an alpha for him ten minutes ago isn’t going to just avoid him now. Rationally, that makes sense, but Billy doesn’t like to count his chickens until he sees them hatch with his own two eyes.

The bus ride back lasts maybe an hour, but Billy half-sleeps through most of it. It’s weird, but he feels… safe, now, tucked against the window, listening to Tommy bullshit with the sophomore behind them. At some point, Billy is vaguely aware of Tommy throwing a jacket over him (Tommy’s own jacket, it smells like), and maybe, if he were a little less tired, a little less cold still, it would piss him off because he doesn’t need fucking _Tommy_ to take care of him. He doesn’t want Tommy to think he needs to. But, just this once, Billy curls under the goddamned jacket, tips his head against the window, and sleeps.

When they pull into the Hawkins High parking lot, the team files off the bus and starts to disperse. (Billy shoves Tommy’s jacket back at him and doesn’t say anything else about it.) For a home game win like that, they’d have a rager planned in two minutes flat, but away games are trickier, plus it’s a weeknight, so they all head back to their vehicles or, for the younger players, the cars lined up at the curb.

Before Billy gets to his car, Tommy stops. Says, “Billy?”

“Yeah?” Billy taps out two cigarettes and hands one to Tommy. Watching his face, it’s obvious he’s grappling with whatever questions he has, struggling with the words, which is infuriating. He never hesitated when he thought Billy was an alpha. But, for some reason, Billy lets Tommy take his time while he lights their cigs and takes a deep pull.

Finally, Tommy says, “You and Harrington?”

Billy snorts. “No.” A few hours ago, he’d have gotten mad at the suggestion, aggressive even, but now Tommy’s in the loop and Billy doesn’t have to overreact. A weight Billy hadn’t even realized he carried rolls down his back, relief warm in its wake.

Tommy nods. Takes a pull. “I just… He has a reputation.”

“I’m well aware of _King_ _Steve’s_ reputation.”

Tommy nods, grins like he’s kind of fond of the reputation in question, and maybe he is. He used to be inextricably attached to it, to Steve. But then his expression shifts, pulls down at the corners. “Did you… did you _like_ that Banzett guy?”

Laughing, Billy says, “ _Fuck_ no.”

Something in Tommy eases. He smiles as he draws on his cigarette. “Good,” he says, which is a little patronizing, but Billy allows it.

“They treat it like a game, so sometimes I play along.” Billy shrugs and thinks the relief has gone to his head, lulled him into a false sense of safety. But then he thinks, again, of Tommy squaring up to Banzett, willing to start a losing fight, just because Billy had looked uncomfortable. That shit still blows his mind, makes him reconsider everything he’s ever thought about Tommy H: stupid, disloyal jock; peon clutching at kings’ cloaks, dancing for their favor.

“That’s fucked up,” Tommy says

“Yeah,” Billy says. “It is.”

They smoke in silence until, from across the parking lot, Carol calls for Tommy. She’s on her way over, bouncing with excitement. Tommy waves at her, smiles. Personally, Billy always thought Carol was too good for Tommy, that she could do better. Of course, she always insisted there was more to it, more to Tommy, and Billy thinks she might be right.

“Hey,” Billy says, because if he doesn’t say this before Carol gets here, he won’t ever say it at all. He fusses with it for a few seconds, runs his tongue inside his inside his teeth, bites his cheek, but then says: “Thanks.”

Tommy’s face lights up with a grin. He claps a hand on Billy’s shoulder. “Don’t mention it, man.” Then his voice dips lower, “I won’t tell anybody. You know I won’t, right?”

No, Billy doesn’t know that, because all Tommy _ever_ _does_ is gossip to him and Billy _knows_ he tells Carol everything and Carol is the physical embodiment of a rumor mill, so he expects that, within the week, everyone will know. He’ll just have to deal with that when it comes. “Better not,” he says, but without the heat to make it a true threat, nothing like the way he said it to Banzett.

“Better not what?” Carol asks as she bounces up to them, looping her arm through Tommy’s and tugging him down for a kiss.

“Mm, nothing, babe.”

They stand around chatting until they’re squashing cigarette butts under their shoes. Then they part ways, Carol tugging Tommy away and Billy throwing up a half-hearted hand as he turns toward his Camaro. And pauses.

 He _knows_ he didn’t park next to the Bimmer earlier, because avoiding Steve has become an ingrained habit and where the BMW is, Steve is. Billy squares his shoulders and makes a line straight for the Camaro. He manages to unlock the door and get inside before Steve gets around to him, catching the door mid-close.

“Hargrove.”

Billy sighs. “Harrington. If you’re here to actually run me over, you missed your chance.” He looks up at Steve, leaning into Billy’s space. He’s sweating, hair and shirt damp, panting hard like he’s just done a few laps in the middle of July without air conditioning, and his smell, usually sweet and crisp, hits Billy like a fucking bazooka to the sinuses, sharp and suffocating. “Jesus _Christ_ ,” Billy says, instinctively reaching out to shove Steve back. He needs to get this door closed. Right now. Two minutes ago.

With reflexes that they could have used in the game tonight, Steve catches his arm, pulls it up to his nose, inhales deeply. “You stink,” he hisses. “You fucking _stink_.” Billy thinks about his arms rubbing over Banzett all night, how he hadn’t had time to shower before they all piled into the bus.

“You’re one to talk,” Billy gripes, but it sounds far away, underwater. “Get off me.” Steve’s hand on his arm lights up like a spark, _burns_ , and then squeezes. There’ll be marks, and then, when Billy gets home, _questions_. Passing off all this alpha scent as just basketball is already going to be tricky enough without Steve making his entire car reek.

“I could _taste_ you tonight,” Steve says. His eyes smolder fever-bright, mindless under the instinct, and Billy is _shaken_. Even as heat blooms in his chest, creeps up his throat, he feels like some poor fuck in a zombie movie just before they realize they’re going to be eaten alive. Except every breath makes him lighter, light-headed, spinning.

“Steve. You have to go. Go home.” Every muscle in Billy’s body starts turning soft, until he’s vaguely aware of his back melding with the seat, boneless, arms slumping lax, knees falling open. Shit. _Shit_. His heart _slams_ , but his pulse stays easy and sedated, so steady he can feel every centimeter of pressure inside his veins. His breath keeps pace with his panic, but it’s like drinking poison because he’s dying of thirst; Steve’s scent just saps him more.

Like the predator he is, Steve opens the car door further so he can lean inside, putting a knee between Billy’s parted legs. He’s breathing so hard that his mouth is open. They pass the same air back and forth, a few inches from kissing. Then Steve leans forward, bypassing Billy’s mouth entirely to go for his throat. With a herculean amount of effort, Billy lifts a hand, presses his palm to Steve’s chest, but it’s weak at best, does nothing to prevent Steve from nosing at Billy’s exposed neck.

“Steve-”

Unhearing, single-minded, Steve licks at Billy’s skin, and Billy can’t stop the hard exhale, the way his head tips over, the way he groans, his stomach clenches, his hips press back against the seat, his chest seizes, his eyes freeze wide open, his blood runs so hot and so, so cold. Steve’s teeth graze his neck. Billy prays to the roof of the Camaro for… something. His body to work, Tommy to come back, Coach to walk this way, anything. The odds of Steve stopping on his own are probably the same as asking a lion to stop eating a gazelle, Billy knows that. Still, he tries. “Steve, _stop_.” It’s pathetic, barely a croak, betrays the way his vision wavers, eyes too full. A few eternal seconds later, though, like it has to seep in, Steve pulls back.

Billy watches his expression change, morphing into horror. He’s still sweating, fever-hot, but he says, “Billy?” like he doesn’t remember how they got here, like he was possessed or something.

The relief hits him so potent that Billy’s eyes close. _Fuck_. His hand slides from Steve’s chest, thumping against the seat beside him. It must be Harrington’s turn to panic, though. “Billy, I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” Billy says, because he does. Logically, he knows now that Steve’s in rut, that it’s probably his first one ever (and probably infinitely worse because of it). Logically, he knows that, in his right mind, Steve wouldn’t have done it. Logically, he knows that Steve stopping at all is practically a miracle, probably says a lot about Steve’s character. Logically, it’s forgivable.

Billy doesn’t fucking care. Logic can go fuck itself.

“Get off.”

 Steve reaches up to Billy’s face and Billy has to let him wipe at his cheek, has to watch Steve’s face go haunted. “Did I-?”

“Would you just get the fuck off me already?”

With a shaky breath, Steve extracts himself from Billy’s space, and then from Billy’s car. “Can I-?”

“Close the door,” Billy says, still sinking heavy into his seat. He thinks, in about five minutes, he could do it himself, but he wants it done _now_. “And fuck off.”

“But-”

“ _Harrington_!” Billy snaps, would pound a fist on his steering wheel if he _could_. When he adds, “Just… _please_ ,” it comes out a little desperate. He doesn’t care. He _is_ desperate: desperate to be alone, to move, to breathe, to have some kind of control of his life for just _five_ _goddamn_ _minutes_.

“Okay,” Steve says. It looks like it takes the same effort as cutting off his own arm, but Steve _finally_ closes the door and, even if he leans against it for a while, he eventually leaves. Closing his eyes, Billy counts the seconds until he can move again. One hundred before he can reach out and crank his window down and let the freezing wind rush in. One hundred fifty before he can reach over to his passenger seat and unzip his duffel. One hundred fifty-nine before he fumbles his jersey out, still damp, and drapes it over his face, breathing in measured increments. It still stinks like Banzett, a little, but mostly it’s drenched in Billy’s own smell, neutral and soothing to his senses. Two hundred fifty-six before Billy pulls the jersey down just below his eyes and puts the key in the ignition and turns it over.

He gives himself to three hundred before he puts the Camaro into drive and lets it roll toward the exit. He’ll drive until he knows Neil will be asleep. Knows he’ll catch shit for it in the morning, too, but not as much as he would if he came home stinking like two different alphas. For the entire drive, he keeps his jersey over his nose because the thought of moving it, of catching one whiff of Steve again, makes him nauseous. 

“Omegas are actually the protectors of their packs,” his mom says in his head.

Billy thinks: _Who’s supposed to protect me?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some fun trivia stuff!
> 
> 1\. my high school was (and is still) "home of the railroaders" and, if you've seen that post on tumblr about where Hawkins actually is in Indiana, it wouldn't be far from my hometown!
> 
> 2\. If you know which book the description of the basketball sound ("bamada," which I honestly may have spelled wrong) comes from, I'll dedicate the next chapter to you. It's one of my all time faves
> 
> some non-trivia stuff!
> 
> 1\. scream at me about Tommy being both an underutilized and oversimplified character in almost all fanfic


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